Magic bonds
by I'm Nova
Summary: Having met Conan Doyle, a not so well established yet consulting detective adds a side-gig of debunking so-called psychics. But for once, he might have dismissed things too soon... (Alternative first meeting). Happy birthday, my dearest Sendai!
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: Nothing mine, of course. Holmes is Conan Doyle's and most of the plot belongs to M. R. James. A.N. Happy birthday and many, many happy returns, my dearest Sendai! I apologise for how poor this is, but I have been hit with major writer's block (and flu, which might have something to do with it ^^'''). Sorry for the lack of John at the moment, and I know this is a small offer, but I promise more is to come. Enjoy! (I hope)_

Magic bonds

Holmes huffed. How Stamford had thought that Doyle would be a good fit as a flatmate, he didn't know. For once, it wasn't whichever flatmate Sherlock tried to cohabit with that ran away for the hills claiming the only room fitting for the sleuth was one in Bedlam. Doyle was, actually, unusually tolerant of his odd hours and experimental bent. But Sherlock refused to live with someone who at a ripe adult age still believed in fairies, ghosts and whatever other tripe any conjuror could come up with. A lengthier cohabitation would have caused his brain to spontaneously rot, he was sure. When he couldn't resist anymore, he said it openly…and finally was rid of such a naïve companion, after a rather spectacular row.

There was only one good thing that came out of his acquaintance with Doyle. It all started with an accidentally spoken aloud deduction during a séance – one that the doctor should really have known better than hold in their shared rooms anyway. His consulting detective business was still at the beginning, leaving him much more time than he would have wished, for the sake of his sanity as well than of his wealth. So, when invited, he would happily – as a sort of side activity, which he would never confess to any inspector – debunk self-proclaimed psychics, telepaths, and whatever other title a man – or woman – could claim to dupe people. It was too simple most often, of course. But if it didn't tax his brain, at least it kept his eyes sharp.

Still, most of these charlatans were people who wouldn't find a place otherwise. Then someone consulted him about a professor urging them to add to a philosophical convention they were organising a panel discussion – which he obviously offered to lead – on demonology and its practical effects. The sleuth checked, of course, and he was surprised to find that the man was an actual university professor, not just someone who thought adding the title to his name would be beneficial.

Even more strangely, the man (a certain James Moriarty) taught, in fact, mathematics. Many of his colleagues would shun the whole branch that was his target's hobby, but Moriarty not only solicited the committee that turned to Holmes – the professor published (undoubtedly out of his own pocket) a weighty tome on the subject. Since the book was rubbished by a long list of critics, one more savage than the other, the detective didn't even bother going undercover to see the man's tricks first-hand like he often would for such requests. He just assured his clients that the man belonged in Bedlam, and it was a wonder no one had forcibly brought him there yet.

When professor Griffiths, who represented his clients, asked hesitantly if he wouldn't mind being mentioned as the person who supported their refusal, the consulting detective just shrugged. Of course they could say as much. It didn't matter a jot to him. Griffiths was fidgety while asking, and that surprised Holmes. Odd hobbies or not, the man was still a professor. The worst they did was to pen scathing reviews of each other's essays, not beat up people in back alleys. That obvious amount of unease was a bigger mystery than Moriarty's nonsense.

Now, Holmes regretted not having considered the case worthy of more than a quick browsing at the library. Then again, there were no lives at stake. Unless the man was really so creepy that his clients especially wanted someone else to pin their obvious refusal on…in which case, the professor appeared as if he could turn from a loud loony academic to a potentially violent madman at the drop of a hat. (He should certainly be used to being dismissed in his line of enquiry after all.)

If his life was about to be in danger, he should like to know it. Which was why he donned a disguise, and headed for the village where the professor still resided. That was yet another oddity. Why would the man live a good number of miles from his chair?

Once there, on pretence of being just a merchant passing through, he sat in the local pub and started chatting amiably. It took him longer than he'd hoped, but finally (offering a few rounds), he managed to bring the other customers around to gossip.

What he heard was a mix of the credible and the absurd (or at the very least, the highly improbable). That Moriarty didn't get along with his neighbours was obvious. Tales of his seclusion – but for when he hurried to his job in a coupé, more than once almost running over an innocent bystander. Griping about the man's servants being a spiteful lot, and with such faces that nobody would be surprised to learn that they had sojourned in jail in the past. But the most prominent remark was how easy to take umbrage the man was, how persistent his grudges, and how sure you could be of his vengeance.

That was the report you could easily believe. Then came the outlandish part. Hushed whispers of the man throwing away religion and starting a dark cult, which made the detective wonder if these simple people had confused a mere academic interest coupled with a disregard for mass with actual devil worship. And above all, one disquieting tale…

Apparently, just after the professor moved in, he pretended to be a nice person, and even decided to offer a show to all the local children, since he received some special plates, or so he said. He apparently took a special delight in telling the villain's point of view, when narrating, and the plates…well, they were special all right. The characters depicted seemed to jump out of the image, and of all the fairytales he recounted, both his words and the images seemed to indulge in the most grisly details of any story. People (actually, mostly children) eaten, dismembered, stabbed…with a very believable wolf apparently jumping at you, there was enough to feed nightmares for a month.

But the worst was the last image he picked, what his informants insisted had to be flesh-eating bugs from hell… And somehow these didn't just look able to get out of the screen, but they appeared to spread in the room, among the children… The result was a veritable stampede of terrified children, which lead to a number of broken bones. No wonder that there was no love lost between Moriarty and his neighbours!

Sherlock regretted having taken an interest in the man so late, because he would have loved to observe this, so he could expose him (the actual spreading of the creatures sounded like a hard trick to pull off, but he didn't doubt he could figure it out with first-hand data) and so protect the children from being hurt.

All considered, the sleuth came back from his expedition without a worry. The man was despicable, for sure. Insane, very possibly. But he was no kid to be terrified by magic tricks, and if any of the very likely felon servants were to be sent against him, they would have a rather unpleasant surprise. He had learned long ago to protect himself.

It was all true, of course. But it wouldn't be long before Holmes self-assuredness and contempt for someone who managed to ignore all the scientific precepts he was supposed to teach took a hard hit, with the truly inexplicable entering his life…

As it ever happens, the inexplicable seemed dull at first. A leaflet that someone had apparently glued or otherwise affixed to his compartment's window, perhaps because they were bored, or because they had some extras. Holmes might have ignored it, if he wasn't alone in his wagon, so nobody was offering material for deductions that would keep him amused, and if the paper itself wasn't a brilliant yellow. In ornate, dark blue characters, it declared, "In memory of Henry Watson, F.S.A., of Fairways, Farnham. Died June 22, 1881. Three months were allowed."

It was odd that anyone would choose such bright paper for such a sombre announcement, much less – if the 'allowed' lines really meant that – demand or receive permission to stick it on the train. The name, though, attracted the sleuth the most. He recognised it as one of the most cutting and in-depth critics on whose opinion he'd assured his client to ignore Moriarty's request. At the time, he'd had no idea the man was actually dead. Maybe this rather silly case could still have some points of interest…he would have to look into it. If there had been foul play on the professor's part, and Mr. Watson had been less prepared to deal with it, justice would have to be served.

Which was why, mildly curious about it, when the train conductor came by to check his ticket, he nodded towards the obituary and asked vaguely if there was an office appointed for authorising such things nowadays.

The conductor denied it vehemently, deplored the taste of whoever concocted this, and went to scrape it away from the window…with no success. "Oh look, they glued it on the outside. Some people are really queer," he remarked, before continuing his duties.

Soon, they arrived at a midway station, and the detective could see the conductor – who apparently had taken the minor matter to heart (possibly, he was bored too) – on the station platform, outside, marching towards the offending obituary. Amazingly, it wasn't ripped off a second later. The conductor stared, scratched, stared some more, and then came back with a colleague. What could be the problem? This was becoming stranger by the minute.

The two seemed to argue a moment, and then they entered Holmes' carriage. "Is there a problem?" the sleuth asked, puzzled.

"It's not out there!" the train conductor he'd already talked with blurted out, looking flummoxed.

The other had marched to the window, only to still suddenly. "I was sure you were having me on, Luke, but it's not in here, either."

At that, the consulting detective had to get up and examine it closely. The two befuddled men were right. It was as if both colour and words were painted or etched _inside_ the glass. This was not necessarily supernatural – one could conceivably send someone to switch a glass nightly, he doubted that the train would be running twenty four hours a day. But if someone had, they did an awesome work. There was no obvious sign of it being recently changed. Besides, what reason would have Watson's relatives for a similar trick?

Of course, it could be Moriarty's men. But this opened a more disturbing prospect. If the obituary was an implied threat, showing off what they already did, it meant that either the professor had another enemy usually taking this line (but the villagers hadn't mentioned any ongoing feuds, even when they extolled the man's resentful character)… Or Moriarty wasn't just aware of his 'slight', but had deduced a)that he would come to investigate; b)which train he would take; c) which carriage he would choose. All without ever meeting him. Impossible. Not even Mycroft could have been certain of it, and his brother knew him from birth. Such a feat would be much more terrifying than getting words 'inside' a glass and switching a train window.

Obviously, it could be meant for someone else. The detective offered his calling card to the conductors, saying he was curious about such an odd thing and would like to know if it had really been allowed, after all, and how long it would be up. They nodded, still mumbling about, "Strange," and, "Who would do that, anyway?" before going on their way.

Perhaps he'd dismissed things too soon. This case was unusual enough to be definitely interesting. First, he needed more data. Next stop, Fairways, Farnham. Hopefully, Henry Watson had left behind someone who could shed even a partial light on this.


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: nothing mine. A.N. Sorry about the cliffhanger….I couldn't resist! ;D_

Holmes really planned to visit the Watson household first thing in the morning. But one incident made him postpone it for a while. The train conductors knocked on his door the following morning. He'd expected some result from that line of enquiry, of course. But not so quickly – these people were busy enough that one odd event should not, he'd thought, push them to ask about it as soon as possible. Certainly, he didn't expect what they had to say.

"You need to come witness for us, Mr. Holmes, before they send us both to Bedlam!" they chorused, as soon as Mrs. Hudson introduced them.

"I certainly will, if I can be of any help. But what seems to be the problem?" the sleuth replied.

"That obituary –"

"Yesterday –"

"Inside the window –"

"It disappeared!" they announced, apparently both so overwhelmed that neither could manage more than a couple of words before snapping their mouth shut, as if in reflex after being ordered to do so often lately.

"Are you sure?" the sleuth asked, before kicking himself mentally for it. These people knew trains like he knew his tobacco ash, out of long familiarity. There was no chance that they'd simply mistaken the carriage or something as simple. This was becoming more and more odd. Let's imagine that Moriarty managed to switch window panels, to threaten someone. Why would he go to the bother of switching it back again? The obituary should mean nothing to any passenger but the one it was meant for.

"Of course we are," one of the two announced, sniffing in outrage.

"But we inquired about it – not just for you, see, but because we were puzzled ourselves – and now our superior thinks we were into our cups!" the other explained, wringing his hands.

"Nothing of the sort was ever authorized," concluded the first, in a soft voice, as if somehow that was the most worrying point of their tale.

"I'll send your supervisor a telegraph confirming I've seen it too, if you think it'll help you avoid an unjust reprimand. Just write down where I can reach him…somewhere," the detective said, gesturing towards his table, currently occupied by a number of books and newspapers, as he'd spent a good part of the night trying to track down all he could on Watson's death. Thank God that he had a few good friends that didn't mind lending him copies of anything he could need after hours. "I promise I'll do it today, but at the moment I am expected – in danger of being late, actually, so you'll have to forgive me if I hurry you along, too," he added. A little white lie was necessary if he wanted to be on the first train for Farnham.

His guests looked lost for a moment, but then one wrote an address on the corner of the topmost newspaper and traced a rectangle around it, hoping it would make it noticeable enough, before both scurried away, mumbling thanks. Their host had offered before they could ask, so making him late would be a poor repayment of his kindness.

Holmes spent the trip to Farnham re-examining all the data he had about the Watson's case, and Moriarty in general. There were definitely some things that made him suspect foul play…but he shouldn't forget the possibility that the professor could have some accomplice(s) in the household. The man certainly wasn't inclined to doing his own dirty work when his victims weren't children.

The Watson's house showed signs of having seen better times, but it was evident that its owner, despite loving and caring for it at his best, couldn't restore it to its former glory. Whoever Moriarty's accomplice(s) were, they didn't live here unless they'd been servants in the first place and the professor cautioned them against suddenly leaving their employment, which could draw undue attention. Or possibly relatives that hated Henry Watson themselves and would have done it even without Moriarty's egging, if possibly in a more blatant way, getting caught in the process.

When he rang the bell, the door was opened by the current owner himself: a former army officer, obviously, with blond hair further bleached by the unforgiving sun of the Afghanistan campaign. His clothes, despite being practical, were a tad too fine to be allowed to the servant of a household whose means had trickled away.

"Are you here for a consult?" the man asked, surprising Holmes for a moment before a more careful look (damn his propensity for soldiers, *that* deduction always derailed his thoughts) revealed the man for an army _doctor_.

"To give one, not to receive one. I'm sure you can observe I'm perfectly healthy," the sleuth replied.

"Then, I am sorry, but I'm afraid you have the wrong address. I didn't ask for a second opinion, Mr…" he said, already closing the door.

"Holmes," the detective replied, putting a foot forward to stop the other from slamming the door in his face, "and forgive me if I am rude, but I don't want you to send me away because you assume I am here seeking a compensation. My consultations are free, if the problem is interesting enough, and in this case, the puzzle is indeed most fascinating."

"Puzzle? I still think you might be mistaken. Though possibly you wanted to discuss your problem with my brother, but he sadly passed away," Watson pointed out, still not allowing him in.

"His death is the puzzle I'm referring to," Holmes explained, not retreating yet.

That shocked the doctor into action: he pulled the mad stranger (as far he was concerned) inside and slammed the door behind him, instead of in his face, hissing, "Puzzle? Puzzle, you say? He drank too much, thought climbing on a tree was a great idea, fell down and broke his neck. Not a mystery, is it?"

"Such is the official report indeed. But your actions are evidence enough that you know there was more behind his demise. What is so eerie that makes an army doctor afraid to discuss someone's death out in the open? It should be something you are more than accustomed to," the consulting detective retorted, a challenging look in his eyes.

Watson barked a laugh. "Not a brother's death, no. Not really accustomed to that one. But even if there was something else to it, what business is it of yours?"

"Apologies. I'm a consulting detective. My business, as you say, is to solve cases the police are unable to end satisfactorily on their own. So, you see, doctor, a murder is my business as much as pneumonia is yours," Holmes explained, shrugging.

"Even if it might be so, I don't just ring the bell of anyone I've heard coughing. Shouldn't you advertise in the newspaper and let clients find you that way?" Watson objected, raising an eyebrow.

"I have recently angered professor Moriarty," the sleuth revealed.

Before he could continue with his suspicions about the man's involvement in the senior Watson brother's death, the doctor sighed deeply. "You couldn't just go out there and kick a wasp nest or something equally as innocuous, could you? Come with me, we need to have a talk and tea is definitely in order."

This was so much better than having to persuade someone of the chance that their relative had indeed been murdered! For some reason, even the innocents never liked when one raised that hypothesis, no matter how much evidence one could adduce.

Watson smiled gently to the girl who peeked out of what had to be the kitchen (the only help he'd kept, Holmes would wager) when asking her for tea. As soon as they both sat down in a sunny room, half-turned into a library, he said, "I need a premise to this talk, Mr. Holmes. I have not gone to the police with my information because I don't fancy visiting an asylum as a patient, but I swear that everything I am going to tell you is no more nor less than what happened to my brother. Go to the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers and ask if John Watson was inclined to flights of fancy, if you want. Just don't dismiss what I have to tell you because it's unusual."

"I don't need any witnesses for your character, doctor. The mere fact that you wanted to dismiss me until you heard I might have to fight against your late brother's enemy is proof enough that you don't want to dupe me. And while I agree that most people are woefully close-minded, especially in Scotland Yard, it's always been a principle of mine that having eliminated the impossible, what remains, no matter how improbable, must be true," the detective assured, offering what he hoped was an encouraging smile.

"That's the point," Watson said, "what I have to tell you should be impossible…I would have deemed it impossible and suggested that anyone mentioning it lay off the drink and the narcotics and take a long, reviving holiday by the sea. That was, of course, before witnessing what my unfortunate brother had to go through."


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: I am still not owning a single thing. A.N. I'm so very sorry for this coming late, I've been ill and that ruined my writing schedule… ^^''' Also, there's a bit of Latin in this. De mortuis nihil nisi bonum means "About the dead nothing should be spoken unless good". Given that this happens in XIXth century, I believe a few Latin idioms would be commonly understood. School curriculum was different back then._

"First of all, I need to get rid of a preconception you might have. After listening to my tale, you might suspect that my brother's soul had been shaken by the very fact of realising he was vehemently hated, and he had created his delusions because of this," Watson said. "Now, I know that propriety would require 'de mortuis nihil nisi bonum', but the truth is – nothing could have been further from my late brother's disposition. He might have been an academic, but beyond that, he was eminently contentious. He liked to lord over me that old idiom about the pen being mightier than the sword, and he never seemed to be in a better mood than when he managed to lambaste some unfortunate academic with opposing views, and better yet if he succeeded in causing them to lose their composure. Knowing that Moriarty was so vexed that he held a grudge would have made Henry's day."

"Thanks for your honesty," Holmes replied, "Not many people would be so unbiased when talking about a close relative with a stranger."

"Well, he's beyond being hurt, and you'll need the most factual exposition if you're to believe me," the former soldier remarked with a shrug.

"Anyway," he continued, "Henry, for a long time, considered Moriarty the favourite butt of all his jokes, even after his scathing review of the man's work had already been published. My brother just couldn't conceive of someone in this enlightened century apparently believing in superstitions better suited to the Middle Ages. The devil exists, of course, but he's much too busy to be at the beck and call of anyone investing in a few candles and making a trip to the butcher, he used to say. And having seen war, I felt rather inclined to agree with him."

"Anyone would have agreed with him. I admit I've not examined Moriarty's work in as much detail as I usually would. At first glance it seemed a bunch of sheer poppycock," Holmes admitted, after taking a sip of his tea.

"We never thought any consequence would have affected us. If anything, we thought that Moriarty wouldn't have dared show himself in polite company for at least a decade. Instead, the very next time my brother went to the opera after his review was published – I didn't accompany him, and I have blamed myself ever since – who was sitting at his side if not James Moriarty himself? Of course, my brother hadn't met him before, only read his essay. So, instead of mocking him, he was perfectly civil. Oddly, Moriarty was, too. He had the civility of a snake, or a spider patiently waiting to trap an insect in his web. And finally, he did," Watson recounted, his hands squeezing the cup convulsively.

"In public? And nothing was reported?" the consulting detective asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Nothing seemed amiss," his host explained, purposefully relaxing his body. "My brother always kept his playbooks, I could even show you the collection – but somehow, that time his went missing. Thinking back on it, obviously it was stolen, but at the time making such an accusation would have been ridiculous. And since I wasn't there, when his seat neighbour kindly – even insistently – offered his own, Henry wasn't about to refuse the favour. It was only later, coming back home, that he noticed 'James Moriarty' neatly written in a corner, and so discovered who the helpful man was."

The detective was already considering the chance of a playbook laced in venom or drug, and the quantity that would be needed for a man to die from it by rereading it over and over, but it seemed highly unlikely.

"When my brother opened it, a small slip of paper slid out. It was in the same precise penmanship, so undoubtedly Moriarty's, but not in English nor in any other language either Henry or I knew. Actually, it mostly resembled some form of code, with arcane symbols mixed with normal and foreign lettering," the doctor said.

At that, Holmes leaned towards him like a hound on a scent. Code. Now they were getting somewhere. So Moriarty _had_ corrupted someone in the house and sent instructions indecipherable to anyone not part of the plot. Well, anyone who wasn't a consulting detective. "And do you have it still, or if you don't, do you think you could remember it well enough to write it down for me?" he asked.

"I would be hesitant to write it if I could," Watson admitted, with a shudder. "You see, it was clearly something Moriarty was working on, and as much as my brother despised the man, he'd been kind, so Henry planned to send it back first thing in the morning. But a sudden draught, the origin of which I cannot divine for the life of me, sent the paper into the fire. My brother didn't have a moment of peace after that."

This sounded odd. If the instructions couldn't have reached any accomplice, why would Watson senior be bothered? "Don't tell me Moriarty harassed your brother about getting it back," the sleuth remarked, frowning. That seemed like a petty endeavour even for someone of the occultist's bitter disposition.

"Not directly," the former soldier said darkly. "I commented that he wouldn't be able to return it, naturally. A handful of minutes later, Henry snapped angrily that yes, he understood that, and I could shut up now. He insisted I had repeated it at least four times. I swear, Mr. Holmes, I didn't mention it more than once. If only because I knew better than to purposefully annoy my brother. That was just the start." The man sighed.

Auditory delusions. That was an interesting symptom. Holmes started mentally making a list of the substances that could have caused it, and how they could be administered. But he needed more data to whittle down his list. "What followed?" he inquired.

"He suddenly became anxious. He wouldn't speak about it with me, but suddenly there was damage in his bedroom, so we needed to share one. I didn't call him out on it, but it was obvious that Henry himself had managed to contrive the situation. Then again, if my military training could give him a modicum of peace, I would have happily shared a room with him for the rest of my life. It didn't. I was woken up many times – sometimes, multiple times in one night – by his screams. I've assisted people bleeding out, ripped apart by shrapnel. Somehow, my brother's wailing matched – and once or twice surpassed – the horror, panic and pleading of these poor souls. I never thought I would hear such screams again," the former soldier explained, his mouth a thin line, eyes clouded by both sets of memories.

"Did he say what he saw in his dreams?" the detective wondered.

"No. never. Such things weren't talked about in the light of day. Frankly, I could empathise with wanting to leave nightmares behind. But then things progressed. Sometimes, he would ask me to accompany him whenever he had to leave the house. Other times, I would offer, and be harshly rebuffed because, and I'm quoting, 'you always fall out of step and it's so maddening'," the doctor recounted, looking into the murky depths of his tea.

"You didn't," Holmes remarked, not questioning it.

"I was a soldier. What do you think?" Watson snorted. "They would have had my hide during training if I failed at basic marching. No, someone was following my brother. Or more properly, something. Something that appeared in his night terrors, and haunted him during the day…but not something I could ever see properly enough to put a bullet between its eyes. Sometimes I'd feel something wrong myself, in the shadows on the roadside, or out of the corner of my eye. But never anything defined enough that I wouldn't feel like an idiot turning to fight, in case I found nothing. But for my brother, it seemed to be a much more incumbent and physical presence."

"Interesting," the sleuth commented. These were symptoms. They had to be. How a doctor had missed them, he had no idea.

"If that's interesting to you, his death should be downright riveting," his host growled. "Once again, Henry refused my company that day…but from his footprints, it was obvious that at one point he'd started running, until he sought refuge in a tree, only for the branch to crack under him and send him to the ground, snapping his neck). I still let the police believe him a boisterous drunk rather than a literally haunted man."

"You mentioned the footprints. Did you examine the scene? Were there any others?" the consulting detective enquired, wishing he'd known of this case at this outset.

"If you're asking if demons leave footprints, no, there was not a trace that couldn't be attributed to either my brother or other passersby," Watson snapped.

The detective huffed in frustration. So there _were_ other traces. What did they expect a demon's prints to be? Cloven hooves? Would they even recognise whether someone had been following Watson senior that day? If only the man in front of him had been a hunter, instead of a doctor, he could have trusted his testimony…but asking him to reproduce the scene was useless. No one ever paid attention to the details which actually counted. He was too late. Whether someone had actually chased the eldest Watson to his death or not, there was still the matter of his delusions that could be looked into, at least. "I need to ask – as a doctor, have you considered that your brother's behaviour was caused not by alcohol, but by a drug? Possibly even a cocktail of them?"

"Have I? Do you really think so little of me, Mr. Holmes? Of course I considered the option of drugs. But my brother, no matter his other flaws, was generous. He shared everything with me. Food, drink – nothing was reserved for him. As soon as his troubles started, we began sleeping in the same room, so burning a drug in his room's hearth should have affected me, too. Outside, he would always be in contact with many people," the doctor expounded, his fingers tapping against his cup. "So you tell me, how is it that he was the only one affected? It _could_ have been a poisoning that built up until his delusions affected all his senses and led him to his death…if there was a way for only him to be significantly dosed. You tell me how he was given his drug, and I'll happily subscribe to that theory that he was under every pharmaceutical cocktail you can imagine. But until then, I am left with a truth that I would love to be able to deny."

"I'll have to investigate to find your answer," the sleuth declared, rising.

"You're more than welcome to," the other replied, with a smile that was half fond (the man appreciated a stubborn streak) and half a challenge.


	4. Chapter 4

_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing A.N. Sorry for being so late this month Sendai, love, real life has been a bit crazy._

Honestly, when he'd invited the man to investigate, Watson hadn't expected this stranger to search his home inch by inch. No corner was spared. No rug left unturned. Heck, the man almost managed to squeeze up the chimney in the rooms where the hearth was not lighted! He would invariably slither back down coughing and blackened, like a mad chimney sweep in reverse.

Watson called the maid to get him a towel the first time, but when the madman insisted on this practice, he decided that there was no reason to darken all his linens to cater to what appeared to be a bedlam escapee. There was no such thing as a consulting detective anyway, Every minute the doctor became more convinced that his new acquaintance was unhinged (it might explain why he hadn't balked during his own narration), but he also found himself strangely reluctant to toss him out of his house.

He told himself it had nothing to do with the way Holmes managed to cut a striking figure even dirty and crawling on all fours to look for hatches that John had assured him weren't there. People never observed, apparently, and the years he'd spent in Her Majesty's service meant that his late brother could have renovated the whole house, adding dozens of secret passages, and just forgotten to mention it when he came back.

It was ridiculous, of course, and the detective couldn't find a secret passage or anything else that his host couldn't have told him about if he only asked. He didn't entirely blame the man for not just taking his word for it, though. It was always better to see for one's self. As a doctor, John could relate. People sometimes omitted to mention the most blatant symptoms, just because they didn't think them strong enough to bother with, or related to their main issue, or some other drivel.

In the end, he said goodbye to a deeply frowning sleuth, still mostly blackened. The man didn't ask for use of his wash stand, and he didn't offer. It was…safer that way. The doctor wouldn't admit to a soul – he barely could do so to himself – that he was reluctant to see the other go.

He had thought that he was faring well. Had the loneliness after his brother's death left him so starved for companionship? That had to be the reason he asked to be kept updated on Holmes' investigation, even knowing that nothing could ever come of it. Not in this world, at least.

"Don't worry, I will," Holmes assured him, marching out of the house…and starting a reconnaissance of the area. Watson just hoped that he wouldn't try to inspect any neighbour's chimney without consent. That might have some awkward consequences.

Holmes grumbled to himself. He'd never expected his first search to yield absolutely no result. It was a drug. There was simply no other option. He'd thought that dosing the man in his house would be easier – less people to worry about, as simple as buying a domestic's connivance.

As much as people wanted to believe their servants were wholly devoted, the detective had seen too many cases in his career that proved the reverse was all too often true. Especially with a contentious master like Henry Watson. People like him would usually not be very kind to their household either, making their subordinates all too happy to betray them if the occasion presented itself.

Unless it was the soldier's presence that turned Moriarty away from the simpler plan. John Watson was smarter than most people. The way he'd evaluated the chances for his brother to be dosed inside the house, and that his analysis proved correct, were evidence enough.

Just back from the Afghan campaign, the man would still be hyperaware of possible danger, keen to investigate any suspicious change in patterns. And if he discovered a betrayal, he would deal with it swiftly. Even if Moriarty sent some of his hired thugs to take him out of the equation and ensure his enemy was powerless, it would be for naught. The former captain could handle himself in a fight. Sherlock didn't need to spar with him to be sure.

Well, then, he would have to find another way for the drug to be administered. It wasn't surprising that the first dose would be given at the opera. The detective was all too aware of how deeply absorbed one could become during a good performance. Whether by contact, or smell, or any other way, there were too many ways to slip someone a hit. But once wouldn't be enough. Not with the progression of the man's delusions. It didn't help that the fearful effects would have made Henry Watson more suspicious. Accidentally bumping into someone and pricking them, or offering to buy them an adulterated drink, would become progressively more difficult the longer the plan went on.

There had to be a solution. Ghosts and demons didn't exist. He just had to trace down the victim's routine, and somewhere along the line, he would find a clue, or another witness, maybe even unaware of the significance of what he observed. It was a pity that he discovered this case so late. Time was a ruthless destroyer.

Still, he refused to think his endeavour was useless. He would not be bested by someone who didn't have enough common sense to avoid presenting a bunch of superstition, however deeply researched, as fact. And no, wanting to keep the promise he made to the former soldier had nothing to do with it. He wasn't worried about losing face, or anything as silly.

Looking into the murdered man's routine would have been easier if he'd inquired about it in deeper detail with the remaining Watson (no, not his client, as the man never asked – more's the pity). Then again, the man was a public figure, and it shouldn't be too difficult to gather the necessary information. If his brother's description was true (and there was no reason to doubt it) the late Harry Watson wasn't a man who did his best to pass unnoticed. If anything, the opposite was true. And his lamentable violent death would have helped people remember him. Not that the academic would have been likely to have appreciated the silver lining much.

There were obvious places to consider, though. Libraries, his office at the University, the Albion, where the Cocked Hat Club met, if necessary. How often did Watson frequent it? Could people in there be more easily corrupted? Not that the owners would appreciate such insinuations, if he did indeed discover something, but his job was to collect evidence, if any remained. Not to spare anyone's feelings.

Holmes opted to start from the university where the man taught. Any physical clue had probably already been long destroyed by the people frequenting it, but the crowd also meant many potential witnesses. Some new habit of the professor's, developed soon before his death, might have stuck in people's minds. Of course, that meant also having to sift between what might be a cause or an effect of his delusions, but it would be additional data, which the captain couldn't have access to. People rarely report their whole day, even to relatives, and however this was done, they didn't raise any suspicion. It wouldn't have seemed odd, or noteworthy.

The place was, indeed, swarming with people in the mid-afternoon. Knowing what the victim had taught, it was easy to find his previous pupils. They were the frowning ones, having lost their teacher mid-course and worried that the disjointed approach might affect their grades.

Thinking it best to blend in, Holmes stopped by his favourite library first to borrow a couple of books on the history of science (he needed something he could sham being in the process of reading at least). He inquired with a young man eager to be helpful, and was walking toward what had been Watson's office, and belonged now to his substitute. His first informant said that the new professor used to be a teaching assistant, momentarily promoted because it was simpler than hiring someone new. There was a chance that the man, who gained a more stable job from Watson's death, had been persuaded into being an accomplice in it.

Someone coming from the opposite direction, and obviously in a rush, crashed into the detective, sending both his books and his own folders sprawling on the floor, and only just not causing either of them to follow suit. The awkward man looked too old to be a student, and if Holmes hadn't just obtained a description of the newly minted professor, he would have seriously wondered if it was this hasty man. But the fellow - who was profusely apologising, while kneeling to gather his study material – was a brunet, his hair carefully styled with pomade, while the new teacher was, in his student's words, a 'rather leonine-looking redhead'.

The man rose, Holmes' books held gently on top of his own binders, and offered them back, saying softly, "These are all yours, I think. I've not missed any, have I?" He seemed very interested in his own clumsy feet rather than anything else.

"No, I think not, thank you," the detective replied, accepting them. In that moment, a freezing draught blew over him, and he shivered. Damn old buildings. The other had already rushed away – he had to be quite late for something. It all happened so quickly that even the consulting detective could have barely described the man if he had to, but for his gleaming hair and slim build. But he shouldn't let himself be distracted. He had a man to question.


	5. Chapter 5

p class="MsoNormal"I am so sorry, this is not an update, just my deepest apologies. I had a complete writer's block up to today for my ongoing stories, and then I realised it happened because I was not trying to write what I actually wanted to write, only what I felt I *should* be writing, while my Muse had all sorts of interesting ideas for oneshots (and different fandoms). I am NOT – emphatically not – abandoning this story. But writing used to be my moment of happiness, and since it's become a source of stress instead, I'm taking a month-long sabbatical from regular updates. Believe me, I do feel bad about it. But my sanity comes first – or at least what little of it is still there./p 


	6. Chapter 6

_Disclaimer: I don't own anything. A.N. I need to apologise so much, sendai, love, writing was still a bit random, which is why this is so late…I promise I'll try to do better! Hope you like it anyway._

The professor who had inherited Henry Watson's course welcomed Holmes in warmly. He was a round, kind-eyed man who, if one was prone to flights of fancy, could appear to be the human form of candy. Still, the consulting detective had learned to be suspicious. He'd seen the most angelic-seeming people commit atrocious crimes in his career. And something stopped him from feeling at ease. (He really should ignore it, though. Since when did he rely on hunches? He knew better than that!)

"I don't think I've seen you during the lessons, so – what do you need? Are you researching something particular? Organising a conference, maybe? I would be so happy to get out for a couple of days, honestly. I can't promise I'll be as entertaining as my predecessor, though. Sorry," professor Stamford said, smiling.

The detective had considered using an excuse to study the character of the man, but since he breached the subject of Watson himself… "I am a researcher – of a sort. I'm looking into Henry Watson's puzzling death. Of course, I need to understand his life for that, and I've been told you were the person closest to him –"

Without allowing him to even finish his sentence, or issue any precise request, Stamford cut in, "By John, I bet. Do you know we studied together? And if you're reporting to him, could you ask him to come share a drink sometimes? He's holed himself up since Henry died and, frankly, he's very much missed. If the investigation – it _is_ an investigation, yes? Are you with the police? – can help to give him some peace, consider me entirely at your service, Mr…"

"Holmes," the sleuth replied, relieved that the other's rambling had lost steam. Either the man was innocent, because no one sane would confide a plan and expect him not to spread it to the whole county in two days…or the raving was a technique to distract him. "And no, I'm not a policeman – I'm a consulting detective. But this is still very much an investigation." He intentionally ignored the request of passing along the other's message to the remaining Mr. Watson. Surely, if the man was so interested in reminiscing, he could bother sending a calling card, a wire, or any other conventional invitation. He was nobody's errand boy.

"Consulting detective? I've never heard of it, though it sounds like an interesting job. At least one that would ensure you're never bored. Once again, I'll be very glad to help you if I can. Not that I have as much information as I'd like to – in his last days, Professor Watson seemed more on edge than usual, true. But then again, you didn't really ask him what was wrong if you knew him. Like John, he had a wicked aim, and if you disturbed him with stupid questions, he was likely to chuck a book at you. One of the heavy ones," the professor chuckled.

The sleuth could appreciate someone that would not stand for nosy and stupid questions. His job might entail meddling, but he didn't tolerate idiocy. Though if he was supposed to look for an accomplice of Moriarty's*, the victim's attitude meant that too many people would have jumped at the chance to hurt him. How many disgruntled secretaries and embittered students had Henry Watson left in his wake?

…Someone was eavesdropping, weren't they? Holmes tried to concentrate on what gave him that certainty. Was there a noise? Not something he noticed consciously, but why the sudden certainty then?

"…Mr. Holmes? Are you feeling quite well?" Stamford asked, leaning towards him.

"I'm fine, of course. Why?" he snapped.

"Well, you haven't asked me anything yet, and it looks like you might have a headache. Your eyes look sort of pinched. Headaches are beastly things. Can I get you a coffee?" the other replied, care in his voice even with the detective's bluntness. Then again, the man had worked side by side with Henry Watson, and he seemed more cheery than ever despite having to weather his behaviour for years.

"It's nothing," the detective replied. Had he been silent for long? He didn't think so. More probably, Stamford was so used to talking nonstop himself that any instant of quiet seemed odd to him. "Who had access to professor Watson's study, especially in his absence? And how many of those people could wish him ill? Not necessarily his death, they could have been deceived about the scope of what they were doing."

"Let me think…I was one, of course, as his assistant. But I admired him, so even if it would be stupid to take my word for it, no, I would never harm him," the teacher said, rubbing his nape and looking for a moment more like a boy than an educator. "The man could be trying to get along with, at least until you figured out the behaviour he expected from you, but God, was he brilliant!"

For a moment Stamford seemed lost in his recollections, but soon he continued, "Then, there were a couple of secretaries that would usually leave books he requested on his desk while he was teaching, so he could start taking notes immediately as soon as he finished. But I don't believe they hated him. It's not like it was a difficult job, or his reading material was objectionable." He chuckled. "They had less interaction than anyone else with him, so they didn't have much of a chance to be angered."

"Oh, but wait," he concluded, "I'm not saying that professor Watson didn't have people who would like to get even with him – definitely not! – both among other professors or students that felt they were unfairly judged – they weren't, really, though I won't say he wasn't harsh with them. Only, none of them would be allowed inside his office, usually. And if they were, you'd hear the screams from two floors below!"

"How can you say that when his office could be freely entered anytime he wasn't there? Were you supposed to stand guard?" Holmes rebuked.

"Oh, no! Sorry for giving you the wrong impression. He locked his office when he wasn't there, especially in his last days, but the secretaries and I had a key. Of course, someone could have stolen one, but there were no pranks or anything else he noticed, and who would get in, touch nothing and get out?" The man shrugged.

Nothing? Did this man really think nothing had changed? Was he an idiot, or was he pretending? If he wasn't, Holmes suspected someone wouldn't have needed his own ability in pickpocketing to get his key and afterwards let it slip back in its place. This investigation was going to be a long one.


	7. Chapter 7

_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing._

Leaving Stamford's office, Holmes wondered if his investigation would be shorter than he'd feared, after all. He couldn't shake off the feeling of being followed. Possibly, whoever had been involved was suspicious of him? Great. He would only have to catch his shadow, and he'd be done.

No matter his attempts, though, he couldn't determine which one of the people swarming in the university's halls was stalking him. How could this happen? It was a frustrated student, or an outraged scholar. The detective's life had hinged on identifying and anticipating threats more than once. How could an ordinary person be more of an expert at following one's target than actual criminals, who relied on it for their profession? Perhaps, instead of sending Moriarty's accomplice to jail, he should mention them to Mycroft as candidate for the secret service.

The feeling didn't disappear once out on the street – all his senses on high alert – but still, despite every trick he had employed with success in the past, the sleuth couldn't identify his tail. Not even after taking to less crowded alleys. How was it possible?

Holmes stopped abruptly and shook his head. Was this paranoia? …Had he been dosed, just like the late professor Watson? But how was it possible? He hadn't eaten or drunk anything, touched anything with his bare skin long enough to absorb a significant amount of drug, or felt any pinprick…And if the poison was airborne, Stamford would have been affected by it, too. Chipper as the man was, he certainly didn't look aware of any possible danger, much less expecting it at any second.

Wallowing in doubts wasn't an option, not if he wanted to solve the case. The detective decided to go back to Watson's. ' the man was a doctor, and had observed the progression of his brother's illness. If anyone could determine if he presented similar symptoms, he could. And if Holmes' uneasiness was well founded, as long as his enemy didn't attack him on the way, having the help of a soldier could very well save his life.

Rushing to the station was a completely rational action. Especially because the threat, if it truly existed like his brain insisted, still lurked, instead of pouncing on him. Possibly a deliberate choice to shake him, and a dreadfully effective one, he was ashamed to admit, even if just to himself. Either his brain or his eyes were failing him, and that was more chilling than any murderer he faced before.

The detective was lucky enough to find an empty carriage, and if he stared – well, more like glared – at the door during the whole trip, daring his unseen enemy to enter it, that was the bare minimum of caution required during a murder investigation. The only person who came in, during a middle stop, was a prim and heavy set matron. She claimed one of the window seats after greeting him, and proceeded to let the movement lull her to sleep. His mysterious shadow was certainly not her – you couldn't miss her from a mile away, and Holmes had enough (admittedly sometimes awkward) experience on the subject to guarantee that she wasn't a carefully crafted persona.

He almost turned back from Watson's house once he reached it, wary of bringing danger to the man's door. But the captain had the knowledge he needed at the moment, and was obviously able to take care of himself. So the sleuth kept to his plan and rang the bell. He half expected to be chased away, popping up unexpectedly at the man's door once again.

But Watson, despite his obvious surprise, smiled brightly at him. "Don't tell me that you have already solved the case!" he exclaimed.

Holmes shook his head vigorously. "No, nothing like that…sorry, can I come in?"

"Of course," Watson said, moving aside to let him in, a puzzled frown on his face.

After carefully closing the door behind himself, the detective laughed bitterly. "I might have made some progress…in the wrong direction," he admitted. Without asking for leave, he moved to close the blinds on all the windows.

"Sit down, please, and tell me everything. If you came here, I can help. And I want to," the doctor said.

The consulting detective let himself gratefully fall into a chair. The books that had been part of his cover, and that he'd moved under his arm a long time ago, to be more at ease, fell on a heap on the floor, some of them opening haphazardly. A nondescript, tiny, white envelope flew out of one, seemingly riding on a current of air that shouldn't have existed.

Instinctively, the former captain caught it before it could get into the hearth. He made to hand it back, but stopped when he saw his new acquaintance frown. "Something wrong?"

"That wasn't in there before. When I checked out the books, the library employee leafed through them at my request. As they are suggested for some courses, I didn't want to accidentally rob a student of their notes, too," the sleuth explained.

It was bad enough that he hadn't noticed someone slipping him a message – he'd explained his plan to Stamford only, so why would anyone decide to contact a random man wandering the university? God knew, Stamford had talked enough that such an act didn't seem like him. If the professor had anything to share, he would have.

Holmes rose and snatched the envelope from the other's hands. Whatever anyone had gone to so much trouble to share deserved to be read. Opening it, he jumped in enthusiasm, shouting "Finally!"

Watson suppressed the urge to flinch. He liked the man, but after dealing with his brother, he had really hoped that he wouldn't have to weather anyone's sudden mood swings for a long while.

"Look! A code. Does it look similar to the one your brother was handed?" the detective asked, holding the slip of paper to him.

The doctor stared at it, paling. "It's identical." Unconsciously, he stood at attention. "It won't have the same effect, though."

"Of course not, because we're aware. Now, I would very much like to conduct a number of experiments on it, to see if it is contaminated," Holmes said. Things finally started making sense again. His symptoms – now he could definitely term them as such – had been caused by this. It had to be a surprisingly potent drug to have such an intense effect on him from the inside of an envelope slipped in one of his books. Could it evaporate through everything and affect him? They could be on the brink of a great scientific discovery. He might have to send Moriarty his thanks for this…once he ensured the man was in jail.

"Are these experiments of yours going to damage the paper?" Watson asked sternly.

The sleuth shrugged. "Probably, but it's not as if that is important on its own – what this has been definitely soaked in is what matters."

"Then you're not going to do a damn thing with this." It was an order. There was no mistaking the tone of the former soldier. He took the slip from Holmes' surprised and unresisting grip, and pocketed it. "Seriously, my brother's was immediately destroyed…and eventually, he died. Screaming a good deal in the meantime. At the very least, I'd expect someone like you to want to understand what it said before mutilating it."

"But…" Holmes objected.

"No. No objections. I'll keep it. It's a clue about my brother's death. I'm entitled to it. You're welcome to observe it anytime you want…in order to decipher it," Watson cut in. It was obvious he would have fought him about it, if the sleuth tried to push the subject. Which the detective wasn't going to do, thank you very much.

He could still pout, though. "If the secret message ends up being total nonsense, as I expect, will I be allowed to actually analyse it without worrying about its integrity?"

"If we don't find another reason not to," the doctor replied, shrugging.

"Fine, let me just copy it, so I can work on it at home, and you'll see – by morning I'll bring you a translation," the sleuth huffed.

"No," Watson countered, crossing his arms.

"No? What do you mean, no? Why would you put such ridiculous limitations on me, just because…I'm not actually sure why you would do that, actually," Holmes yelled, throwing his arms into the air.

"I have reasons. Stupid, illogical reasons which you would never consider valid, so I'm not going to explain myself. But believe me, I am doing my best to help. Besides, I never said that you cannot work on it. You're more than welcome to be my guest, for as long as you need. If you have research materials you need at home, we can either send someone to get them, or you can go and I'll be waiting for your return. I promise not to touch it in the meantime," the other man said. And how could it be that he sounded like the most reasonable of the two of them, while admitting he was acting irrationally? It was galling!

"I don't have a choice, it seems. I will be off to get my resources…and to give these books back, since I'm already at it," the consulting detective replied, kneeling to sweep them up.

Watson smiled brilliantly at him. "I'll tell the cook to expect you for dinner."

"Actually, I don't eat while on a case," Holmes informed him from the threshold. He only received an eye roll. He feared that he'd finally found someone capable of outstubborning him.


	8. Chapter 8

_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A.N. I am basing the miniature on some info I cobbled together about Indian weretigers' myth. It might be completely wrong, and if so please correct me, but blame Moran for any error of mine. After all, it's his fault I was fixed on such a creature. ;D_

Leaving the Watson's mansion, the consulting detective finally felt light-hearted. The impending sense of doom – the unseen menace – had gone. It could be because his mysterious tail had tired of shadowing him, of course. But he was more inclined to think that the effect of whatever drug he had been given had finally vanished.

Points to Moriarty for both managing it and developing a drug so potent, if it was indeed in the closed envelope. And if it wasn't, why slip it to him at all? A red herring? That seemed like a lot of trouble to go to, just to keep him occupied for a day. The elder Watson was already dead, after all. There should be no immediate plan whose success hinged on him not being able to nose around the university.

He started going through the documents he would need to decode Moriarty's message in his mind. It being little more than a line would not help his work – more data were always an advantage – but the consulting detective was confident in his experience. He would know what it said soon enough, and afterwards, the veteran would not have any excuse to halt the most meaningful investigations anymore.

So if he was rushing through his errands, it was only for the case, not because he enjoyed his client's company, no sir. Nor was it because the detective hadn't met anyone who could stand their ground against him since he'd left home, and his relationship with Mycroft became sporadic, his sibling too busy with boring duties. Obviously. He was only interested in the crime – and, to a lesser extent, the brilliant chemist of a criminal behind it.

Still, as quick as he was, Holmes was still too slow – almost tragically so. He wasn't usually that stupid! It was obvious what would happen. The paper was drugged, for God's sake! And he had caved in and allowed a wounded veteran to keep hold of something that made even himself paranoid. What was he thinking? (He clearly wasn't. That was unacceptable.)

Shots echoed from inside the house, and for once the detective didn't ring the bell. Thankfully, the lock was ridiculously easy to pick. Maybe he should mention it to Watson when the man was in his right mind. Holmes stormed inside, his own notes falling to the floor, letting the echo of the bullets guide him. He breathed easier when a spooked young woman jumped at seeing him. At least the homeowner hadn't accidentally killed his maid.

"Watson! It's Holmes! Don't shoot!" he called, hoping his words would get through to the man, before opening the door. Or attempting to, at least, because the former soldier had barricaded himself in, and all the picklocks in this world wouldn't assist him now. "Watson! Let me in! I want to help!" he yelled again. In vain. "Captain! Backup's come!"

That had some result. (Obvious, again. why was he so slow during this case?)There was a loud noise of furniture being moved, and finally, a stiff-spined John Watson let him in. "I tried to keep him out, but all my blockades were useless. He's in here," he whispered, eyes darting here and there.

"Do you see him?" the detective whispered. Trying to get data on the possible different symptoms of a drug from someone so obviously upset, instead of reassuring him, was probably not a laudable course of action, but anything that could bring a quicker resolution of the case was worth it.

"No…but I can hear him breathe," Watson replied, just as softly.

Holmes quickly assessed the room. There was absolutely no one inside. Not even an insect. It was a spacious bedroom, but austerely furnished. Not a chance that someone could hide. And with the windows locked (it wouldn't help much to close the door and leave themselves exposed, not when – oddly – the room was on the ground floor), there was nowhere for an enemy to enter or flee from. The only damage to it had clearly been from Watson's shooting spree. Personally, the sleuth didn't think the change was necessarily negative, but he knew better than to voice that. At least, the bullet holes gave him something else to focus on except the bed, which he absolutely didn't need to associate with Watson. Not with the man's former career and his own penchants.

"He won't dare to move. Not with the both of us here. My compliments for fending him off, captain. Now, the code. Once we know his orders, we can anticipate his moves and take him down," the detective said, holding out his hand.

"It's all yours – it's Greek to me," the doctor said, handing over the slip of paper.

"Thank you," Holmes replied, "I'll bring this to the library we were in before, if it's all right with you. I want to compare it with something I brought."

Watson nodded, blinking slowly. He stood there while the detective left. He looked around the room, and shook his head. What? When? He'd done something stupid, hadn't he? Christ, were these _bullet holes_? He hadn't hurt someone, had he? He'd been so sure that something was there. Was this how his brother had felt? Of course he didn't want to be alone! He supposed that he should be proud that Harry had trusted his protection enough not to steal the gun and redecorate a few rooms himself. Daily indoor shooting practice couldn't be hidden, and they would have needed to have some awkward, long conversations with neighbours and personnel.

About that – enough stalling. He needed to talk to Lily; he must have terrified her. Hopefully, they would also understand why he'd been affected. He'd been so sure that it wasn't a drug, but a curse, that he hadn't thought anything of keeping the paper for a while. After all, Holmes was the intended victim. Clearly, he'd been wrong. Still, his mind refused to accept that a paper could be saturated with anything releasing a drug of that potency. Surely, such an ingredient should be known?

His conversation with the maid was still delayed, since she came looking for him…saying their guest was being noisy. Damn it! Was Holmes being affected again? And what sort of nonsensical drug affected them in turn when they had been together? A moment ago, Holmes hadn't been panicking – that was what had calmed Watson in the first place.

"Stay away!" he heard, from behind the library's door. At least Holmes hadn't locked himself in. John threw the doors open and glanced at the windows – wide open, so that any gas would dissipate. The former soldier came forward slowly, afraid of being affected again…but his mind was clear. Nothing made sense

Watson put a hand on his guest's arm. "I'm here, Holmes. Nobody will be able to harm you, I swear. You don't need to worry – you only need to concentrate. The code – what does it say? We need to know."

A sharp nod, and the detective sat down and started taking notes – attempts at letter combinations, but not replicating the arcane symbols. He trusted the veteran quietly standing guard over him. Now, the most frequent letter in the English language was the E, in Latin the I, in ancient Greek the A, in Hebrew the J. These were the most common languages for incantations which the likes of Moriarty dabbled in, weren't they?

"Sorry to interrupt you, but…I think I've seen this symbol on the corner here, before. On a temple in India, when I was serving," the doctor pointed out.

"Oh, Hindi, of course! Thank you!" Holmes replied. Still, after a few hours his efforts were fruitless. "It must be nonsense!" he yelled, raising in frustration.

"It could be…but if it's a toxin, why am I not suffering its effects anymore? You still feel his presence, don't you?" Watson said softly.

"But it can't be magic! For the simple reason that magic doesn't exist!" the detective growled, turning to glare at his companion.

"What do you think might save us? Denying what we experienced, or figuring out the inconsistencies? Why is it affecting us in turns, but never together?" the other snapped back. He slapped his forehead. "I'm an idiot! I have more clues!"

"What?!" the sleuth said, imperiously holding out a hand.

"I'm sure I put it somewhere I wouldn't stumble on it by accident…but I didn't dare to destroy it. After Harry met Moriarty, he received in the post an anonymous envelope. A sheet of a calendar with what would become the day of his death circled in red, and…this." Watson was moving a few books, seeking deep behind them, until he came forward with a yellowed page. It had a disquieting miniature of a man drinking from a cauldron of something looking like intestines, his lower body transforming into that of a tiger. Underneath, it was written, "A violent man will take revenge."

A glance at the corner, and Holmes let the page drop, stomach turning. He would have sworn that his symptoms had simply worsened, because since he was in the library he could sometimes steal glances at his previously unseen (nonexistent) enemy. A small golden patch, the glint of what he'd assumed to be a knife but could very well be a claw. Hallucinations were supposed to be individual – how could his own fit with Moriarty's 'gift' when he hadn't seen it yet? It couldn't be a curse, could it? No, let's stick to something solid, something… "I've been given a date too," he realised suddenly. In the train car. However Moriarty had organised it, it would have been stupid to ignore it now.


	9. Chapter 9

_Disclaimer: I don't own a single thing. A. N. Apologies for being late, but July was crazy – everyone in my family had their birthdays, I had some teeth trouble (thankfully they don't hurt anymore even if I still need to have work done on them) and the heat was near unbearable. The mix was not conducive to much writing. Sorry again!_

Their investigation was interrupted by a knock, if a little timid. "Sirs? Dinner is ready if you'd like." It seemed that the maid was less traumatized than Watson had feared, if she was attending to her usual duties and even came calling. Perhaps having to deal with Henry's…problem had inured her to crazy employers, bless her.

Holmes grunted, "Not now," waving her away despite her not actually having entered the room.

Well, that wouldn't do. "This date of yours…is it imminent?" the doctor asked.

"Three months away. Well, it was three months the day before I came looking for you," the sleuth replied.

"You're not fasting for three months – unless you mean to kill yourself to deny Moriarty the satisfaction, but I hope you aren't such a coward. My brother died on the exact day the exact day Moriarty's omen foretold. You can have dinner like a courteous human being, and go right back to your analysis afterwards. If it's the same, you have time. If you're going to be attacked earlier, being close to passing out from hunger won't help you survive," Watson snapped, inadvertently using his 'commanding officer' tone.

The detective hated being proven wrong, but this time he couldn't fight the reasoning. (And fine, it was hard to resist being ordered about like that, but he would never admit it to anyone but himself). He huffed and stood, following his host to dinner.

The maid flitted around them, her smile growing larger as she saw that both men were unhurt and didn't seem prone to another bout of mania. Holmes was all too conscious of their still mostly hidden stone guest, but found that with Watson by his side, ignoring it was much easier. Henry Watson had been lucky on that account. He was surprised to see salt on the table, by one of the plates.

The doctor noticed the direction of his gaze and shrugged. "My brother's tastes ran to dishes much blander than I'd prefer, so we got used to this. And even if technically I am the only person in the house…" His voice trailed off. Better that the other man assumed an untrainable cook rather than sentimentality.

The food – a mixed stew - was _really_ tasteless, and as much as the detective resented eating, there was no need to eat something disgusting when the solution was at hand. Well, technically not at hand. "Could you pass the salt?" he asked.

When their fingers met, he solved it. He almost jumped out of his chair, but remained still and considered whether any details disproved what he was thinking. He deeply wished to find some, as what he'd imagined meant accepting Watson's outlandish theory that the occult did indeed exist – and operated. But if all the evidence concurred, blinding himself to it because of principle would make him no better than any idiot policeman, and he'd pay with his life for it.

Still, he could do no more than push the food around on his plate, while examining the situation…and afterwards (only a handful of minutes – it was easy to review the data when your mind was ordered) he left the table with a grin, and a, "You just solved the case!"

Watson couldn't help himself – he ran after the man. He found the detective waving the slip of paper around wildly, and instinctively snatched it from his hands. The last thing they needed was for that one to be accidentally destroyed, too.

"You can keep that," Holmes said, still grinning.

"Apparently I have to, yeah," the doctor snapped, pocketing it.

Immediately the sleuth's eyes tightened, and he asked slowly, "Do you feel it now?"

Watson breathed slowly in and out. "I do."

Holmes swallowed. "Give it back. I promise I'll be careful with it".

With how flighty the man's moods were, his host was tempted not to, but it _had_ been given to him in the first place… "All yours," he said, handing it over. He was relieved to see the detective put the paper in a desk drawer, lock it, and hand him the key.

"You were right on several accounts. There's nothing to do for now. I might as well let you go back to your dinner, since that's what solved it. Actually, I'd like to offer your cook a small token of gratitude, because if her dishes were tastier I'd still be working under a false assumption," the other man replied.

" _Our_ dinner," Watson said firmly. "But sure, I'm sure the cook will be happy too. I expect an explanation, though." Almost as an afterthought, he added, " _After_ dinner. You wouldn't want to offend the cook, I imagine."

How a grown man could pout and not become immediately insufferable, the doctor would never understand. But as long as Holmes came back to the table and actually ate, he didn't mind. With this danger looming over them, it was the former captain's business to make sure everyone in the house was fighting fit, and he would do so if it was the last thing he did. There would be no fainting or childishness under his watch. The bigger mystery, though, was how someone could be a genius and at the same time survive when they were completely devoid of common sense.

The consulting detective, on the other hand, found it maddening to be thrown back to his childhood, by having to finish his plate when there were so many more interesting things to attend to. But he soon realised that his client's surveillance, unlike his parents, was not totally unwelcome. His damned brain, once relieved of the immediate concern of the case, couldn't help but stray, and consider how his host might carry that natural mix of caring and decisive into other – areas – of his life.

It was a quiet dinner, both men absorbed by their own thoughts, but finally it ended. Watson rose, smiled and said, "Can I interest you in a drink with your explanation?"

The detective shrugged. He didn't particularly care for alcohol – his vices were different – but it might not be a bad idea, given what he had to acknowledge.

They settled back in the library, Watson going to a cabinet to pour himself and his guest a glass. "So? What did you discover?" His eyes shone with curiosity.

"As I said, you were right and I was wrong. No known drug – really, no earthly substance – could affect us so strangely. We would either both be under the influence, or safe from it. The only way this makes sense – and I still believe that making sense is a requisite for reality, even if I have to admit that it stretches way further than I thought – is if that paper is…a bearer document," Holmes explained.

"What?" the doctor blurted out. He knew the supernatural was part of their troubles. But curses working like banks, _that_ was weird.

"The person accepting it – claiming it – owns the creature. Considering its nature, it'd be much like owning a tiger. It won't do what you want, you'd be mad to want it around you all the time, and if it gets free, you'll be torn apart. And it _will_ get free…when the document expires. We've been informed of the date when it will, too. Moriarty has been humiliated often enough that he won't expect any of his enemies to lack bias enough to figure out how it works. And if not for you, he'd be right," the sleuth continued.

"That…actually makes sense. Moriarty might have gone too far with his taunting for his own good, though. My brother's first symptom was hearing for a long time, 'You cannot give it back'. Given what you deduced, giving it back might very well be our salvation. Let the necromancer deal with it, if he can…or suffer what he wanted to inflict," Watson said. As a doctor, he believed in do no harm. But he was a soldier, too, and when someone tried to kill you, using the very same means on them was definitely fair. They didn't even have to meddle with dark magic themselves – was there anything more rightful?

"Actually, a necromancer would be defined as –" Holmes started, before a look shut him up. True. The solution wouldn't change whatever you called Moriarty. After all, he was tempted to call into question the man's parentage, and didn't care about the actual data at all. Besides, there were more pressing issues. "Wouldn't he be careful, though? He's condemned at least one man by sleight of hand, possibly more – I confess that when I researched him, I wasn't as painstaking as I should have been. One would think that he'd be careful with his possessions."

"Well, we know that destroying the document very much doesn't work. What other choice do we have? Give up? Condemn a random soul to such a death? I'm quite sure either would make us burn in hell, too. And the last thing I'd want is that ratbag's company in my afterlife," the doctor snapped.

Once again, there was no contradicting the man. "We have about three months. We will figure something out."


	10. Chapter 10

I am so sorry, everyone. This is the kind of notice that nobody would ever want to send - much less receive - and it feels like I'm not doing anything else but share these kind of ugly news every month. Fact is - there will be no update this month either. Possibly a new oneshot, probably not even that.

Things started going downhill when my charger died - and it turned out that, since my laptop is as old as Mathusalem, that kind of charger went out of style, so I couldn't just pop in a shop. The shop promised me a new one around 22 or 23 August, since they had to order it, but also told me they would give me a call when it arrived. As of now, they didn't yet.

I decided that I wouldn't let that stop me, took out an even older laptop, and started working on my chapters there - to make up for lost time, I had most of the chapters going at the same time. Then, _its_ charger died, too. Look, I clearly am doing something wrong, but I've not figured out what yet, so I cannot redime myself.

I was left with my phone, and I know of amazing people who managed to write chapters on phone...but some areas of it don't feel touch already (which was apparently a known issue for Samsung but I had no idea - do your research, folks) and I decided not to push against fate before that, too, went up in flames... or something. I hate having to disappoint you all again, but...what can a woman do?

If you ask how I can even send this notice, this was written on my brother's pc, but a) he'll go away in a couple of days and b) he's editing a nonfiction book at the moment, which is the only reason he even has his laptop with him, and that's time consuming - I cannot just commandeer it for more than 10 minutes, which does not a chapter make. ^^'''

Again, so sorry! Hope this solves itself soon.


	11. Chapter 11

_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A.N. And here's the ending of this tale! Special thanks to Sendai for inspiring it, and I hope you enjoy it, my dear! And of course, everyone who's followed this tale too – I love you all!_

Holmes unofficially moved in with Watson for the first month. They spent so much time discussing Moriarty's schedule, and how and when the occasion to give back such a poisoned gift might present itself, that it simply wasn't practical to spend as much time on train trips as he should have going home each night. Besides, the Montague Street flat had been unwelcoming in the best circumstances, and with a tiger breathing down his neck, it was simply intolerable.

The doctor didn't even remark on how long his guest was staying, chuffed about once again having company in the big, empty house if his behaviour was anything to go by. No wonder, especially since – like the detective's in Bloomsbury – his business wasn't exactly the most popular, so he didn't even have a steady stream of patients to keep his mind off the past.

When Holmes suggested they both relocate – together – to some more auspicious place, Watson thought the man was joking. How could they bring along such a houseguest to any respectable neighbourhood? Maybe one much more crowded? True, he never heard of the… creature… since his brother's death. But for all he knew, Moriarty came to collect it – and if their plan failed, the sorcerer might well be laid up with the flu the day the monster was unleashed again.

"Then let's say we'll move when we have beaten Moriarty," the detective replied to his objections. "A more central position might help your practice flourish just as much as it will my detective business. I'll admit that my side investigations into fake paranormal matters aren't as appealing anymore. Not when I know I could stumble into another legitimate – and malicious – practitioner."

"Can't blame you for that," the doctor snickered. "I'll think about it. I know you have a point, but even selling this house – a central place comes with central London prices. It might not be a smart move when we're already short on funds."

That was how Moriarty-stalking was paired with house hunting in Holmes' routine. The professor had requested and obtained – no wonder that people would agree even to the most troublesome of his requests – a sudden sabbatical, and had holed himself up in his house. With the necessity of having the victim agree to the exchange, even Holmes' breaking and entering abilities would be moot.

"If we're lucky something will break in that devil's nest, and you could enter as a repairman and give him the paper with the receipt," Watson said, frowning, when yet another day had passed without the hint of a solution.

"No, for such minor things he'd have one of his servants deal with the occasional worker – and as much as they undoubtedly take after their master, I'd rather snuff out the source of such wickedness. Personnel, even of the kind who doesn't mind committing crimes, can be replaced all too easily," the sleuth replied, shaking his head. Still, there had to be a way to reach the man!

Finally, their investigation spread to what the sorcerer was doing when the elder Watson met his fate. If it was a murder method Moriarty habitually employed, he could have a pattern – and that could reveal some important clue.

Watson followed him around, saying simply, "Better you have two shadows than one." The soldier grinned when – in the periodicals section of a library – they found a mention of Professor J. Moriarty participating to a conference about the Middle Ages in Belgium on the very week of Henry Watson's death. "He's never made a secret of his grudge, and probably felt very clever being able to produce the 'I wasn't even in the country' kind of alibi, the bastard," he whispered, to avoid the librarian's ire.

Holmes was frankly surprised that the man would open himself to sleights of hand so close to the deadline, as travelling offered all too many opportunities to scammers of all kinds. Moriarty had to be very confident in his actual plan being impossible to crack – and to be fair, it would be so for most people. It almost was for him.

Next step, finding out Moriarty's plans. Conferences, especially international ones, usually announced their speakers well in advance, and the professor knew perfectly well which days he needed to have booked. In fact, three months could be too little time for most organizers. But with the man's style, it wouldn't be odd or difficult to make sure – by human or supernatural means – that someone couldn't take part, after all, making his offer of a contribution look like a godsend.

"Knowing the risks he opens himself to by travelling though, wouldn't he keep his participation a secret?" the soldier asked, frowning. He might not understand magic, but he had a good grasp on strategy.

"He's hungry for recognition. He will advertise anytime whom he considers his peers – or better said, his possible disciples – welcome him. Even if it should be only as a stand-in," Holmes replied.

His university was informed of the man's plans, luckily. They visited it, and Watson was stunned at his new friend's acting ability. If he hadn't known Holmes previously, he would have honestly believed that he had such a deep interest in his studies and so much admiration for Moriarty, and he would love to know if it was possible to listen to any lesson from him during his sabbatical. The detective included the doctor in Moriarty's fan club, and Watson couldn't blame the assistant they cornered for his reaction. He would have raised an eyebrow too, wondering exactly what kind of men were fascinated by such peculiar themes as Moriarty researched.

Discovering that the sorcerer was indeed planning a trip to a weeklong conference in Swiss, two days before the deadline he'd given Holmes, made them both giddy – and the poor university assistant clearly even more concerned.

As soon as they were back home, the sleuth announced, "We have a month and a half to make you the most accomplished of conjurers."

Watson balked, and he thought he could be forgiven. The last thing he wanted was to actually become an expert at controlling spirits.

Holmes rolled his eyes at him. "In the sleight-of-hand sense, not the actual magician sense. You know I wouldn't be a good teacher for the last one anyway. Moriarty has met me, and as much as I can disguise myself, I would prefer not to risk having him recognise me. He might have heard of you – I am quite sure he has, as he'd research his victims – but you haven't actually met, have you? There are enough former soldiers in Britain that a 'casual' meeting shouldn't spark any worry, even should he recognise your career."

"That obvious?" the other asked, smiling bashfully at being so quick to misunderstand.

"Entirely, I'm afraid. Now, there are peculiar hand tricks, but even more, we need to teach you the ability of misdirection. You're entirely too honest and straightforward in your actions. Luckily, this is something I excel at," the detective said.

"As well as modesty, I see." The doctor chuckled.

"Modesty doesn't quite become a teacher," Holmes replied.

Watson proved himself a surprisingly apt pupil – then again, he was a highly motivated one. To the detective's surprise, the majority of his instructions had to go into not looking like he was out for blood than the actual sleight of hand. His passion was certainly commendable, but needed to be redirected, or Moriarty would curse him at first sight. To the sleuth's delighted surprise, Watson was all too willing to share not just a house, but a bed…and let the intensity of his feelings embrace his companion there.

When the day of the warlock's precautional trip came, Watson was on the train to Dover, too. Thanks to the warlock's hubris, it wasn't very difficult to deduce which one he would be on. Afterwards, it was the simplest of things, really. He'd rehearsed too many times to fail. Wander the train and, if possible, find a seat in their target's carriage. Which he managed, maybe because Moriarty made people uncomfortable enough to want to avoid him if possible.

The professor ignored him, besides a small groan of distaste at the lurid novel the doctor took from his pocket. The monster lounged between them. If things went wrong, Watson was determined to never come back – to London, Holmes, or life.

But then the moment came. At the station, Moriarty rose from his seat, and so did Watson, at the same time…his cane moved 'accidentally' in the way, taking everything out of the man's hands. The academic glared and barked at him, but the soldier was so apologetic and helpful that he couldn't be as sharp as he wanted to.

Watson had struck gold, because one of the things that fell from the other's hands was an envelope containing his ticket for the continent. Letting the evil note slip in was the affair of a second, and Moriarty even felt obliged to grumble a thank you when he took it. The former captain watched him go…and trotting smoothly behind him, the vanishing form of the devil they'd been sent.

The grin on his partner's face and the spryness of his step, coming back to Baker Street, was enough to tell Holmes everything he needed to know about the success of his mission. Surely he could be forgiven for snogging the man against the door. It was only the proper welcome for victorious soldiers, wasn't it? And if things progressed from there, well. It was life that, finally ridden of the shadow of a deadline, very enthusiastically reaffirmed itself. Promise of more to come. Again, and again, and again, until they both were old and retired – and even then, for good measure.

Still, there was a shiver of a doubt – would Moriarty have the capability of subduing his own weapon? Neither doubted that, if the man survived, he wouldn't back down in his vendetta. The newspapers soon put a rest to that, lamenting the professor's fall into the waters of the Channel.

That was to be the end of it, both thought. And if the fantastical events had inspired Watson to celebrate his genius partner's less supernatural achievements, nobody would complain. An obscure detective didn't get cases.

Until, one day, the post brought a letter to their new address. The most common paper, a beaten-up appearance…but singular news.

 _Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson,_

 _This might be a confusing letter, but my mind isn't entirely settled – which, as a Colonel of the 1st Bangalore Pioneers, I'm ashamed to admit. Since I'm not likely to make peace with myself – or you – anytime soon, I feel as if I owe you full disclosure – and a warning – all the same._

 _You might think I'm a complete stranger, but I'm not. I'm Moriarty's murderer, and we'll leave it at that. Part of me is still thrilled at that, because he lied. That image he sent you, with the cannibal? There are some of my kind who are turned through such disgusting practices, but not I. I fought a tiger – what I thought was a tiger, at least, but turned out to be one of my ilk – barehanded, and survived. Not without scars, obviously, and that's the reason for my present condition._

 _Why was I stupid enough not to shoot it? Some of my supposed brothers-in-arms hated me so much that they swapped my bullets for blanks before I set up for my hunting trip. I prepared everything the night before, planning to leave just before dawn, and didn't think anyone would have the gall to mess with it. They paid for it, of that you can be sure._

 _So paid Moriarty for his slander. Still – the man welcomed me, and allowed me to understand what I had become. He used me, time and again, sure. But it wasn't too different from how the army used me. They point us at someone, and we murder them, isn't it so, Watson?_

 _The humiliation he subjected me to, and the haze of bloodlust that is part of my new situation, were the man's downfall. I'm happy I took my revenge on Moriarty for his behaviour, and a small part of me wants to thank you for allowing that. But the facts still remain – I never swore allegiance to either of you, and you used me. You used me without consent or understanding me as anything more than a monster, and against my chosen commander._

 _At the moment, I'm off to India – part of Moriarty's shared knowledge was that I could be myself yet again if I manage to murder the creature who made me, and I want to face you as an English gentleman. Once that's done…you might want to hide. It makes the hunt less boring, and I do so enjoy a good game._

 _Sebastian Moran_

"Do you think he's serious?" Watson asked, after reading it.

"Oh, deathly so…but I refuse to tremble for a future that might never come to pass. As boisterous as the man is, there's still the chance that his prey will kill him before he can turn his attention to us. Now, are there any cases that require a more immediate attention?" the sleuth replied, shrugging.

Such was life in 221B.


End file.
